Dina & Darlene
Out too late again, locked doors, access denied. All lights in the trailer park dim in every window. Dina & Darlene have to sleep in the carport in the wheelbarrow under the old shower curtain they use as a blanket. They rest their heads against each other, no need for a pillow. They are raccoons or opossums, scavenging or playing dead. This morning, no time for real sleep. Instead, they knock on the front door, the vinyl and fiberglass indented under fists. Their father lets them in, standing in the doorway in his hibiscus-print boxer shorts. They grab a red, macrame, hemp backpack with a marijuana leaf sewn into the front full of cheap, warm, cans of beer from their bedroom. Before they leave, they take a moment each to kiss the nearest face of River Phoenix. Out in the toolshed behind the trailer, friends are waiting. The toolshed reeks of corpse, or so Misty says, and she should know, she’s an embalmer’s assistant at the funeral home. Misty has stolen formaldehyde to smoke in joints. In the corner, a fat racoon has died, a half-carcass mama shrouded by skeletons of her babies. “Truly living,” Dina says as Darlene slams a beer. “To die in such a way, with each other.” Dina feels instantaneously drunk.